The P v NP of Humanity
by bulmablue-eyes
Summary: The thing about emotions is that they are the one thing genius is unable to comprehend. What happens when someone from Charlie's distant past turns up. Will he be able to cope with the emotions this brings back? Full warnings inside.
1. Prologue

Warnings – This story deals with some pretty squicky stuff, mainly child abuse and the related issues, and self harm.

Disclaimer – I don't own Numb3rs. Or Charlie (Wow I wish). If I did I wouldn't be wasting my time writing this!!!

**Prologue**

Charlie followed Don through the corridors of the FBI offices, sipping a cup of take-out coffee as he walked. He nodded and smiled in greeting as he passed Megan, Colby and David, still slightly confused as to why exactly his brother had started asking him to sit in on interviews. Abandoning any hope of ever figuring this out for himself, Charlie rolled his eyes and, once again, asked Don to explain.

"I've told you a million times, Charlie!" Don exclaimed with exasperation. "You need to get your head around how we handle suspects."

"I know that," Charlie responded, still just as confused. "I just don't see why. I'm a mathematician. Unless you have a suspect who's only capable of speaking in code or reeling off the Fibonacci sequence, I don't see how this is in any way relevant to my role within the FBI."

"You were pretty close actually with that code thing." Don explained. "I don't get how you work sometimes, but it's like you can see everything as numbers. Well, sometimes we get suspects who are speaking to us, but we're missing a message that they may not even know they're giving. Reactions to certain words or suggestions, or even words or phrases repeated by them that we may miss. Megan suggested that you may actually be able to notice things we don't, because of your ability to see everything as codes and numbers."

Charlie nodded, suddenly understanding, as he and Don entered the interview room. He sat down at the table, picking up a file that Don dropped in front of him. "Is this the case?" He asked, flicking it open on a random page and grimacing at the images in front of him.

"Yeah." Don replied, taking off his jacket. "Reports of rapes on boys started coming in about twenty-five years ago. This went on for five years, and then suddenly stopped. We have no idea why. Anyway, recently, there have been a series of rapes on young boys again, all aged between eleven and fourteen, and we arrested a suspect today." He paused for a second, checking his watch. "Anyway, you wait here and have a quick read through the file. I'll go get Megan and our interviewee."

Charlie nodded again, not looking up from the file. His stomach had started churning as soon as Don had explained the nature of the case. 'Rapes on boys'. The words echoed through his head, sending chills down his spine. There were photos of the victims in the file, showing their visible injuries after the attacks. Charlie swallowed down another wave as nausea before turning the page. He froze.

An image of a young boy stared up at him from the page. Bruises littered his body, welts where he had been beaten, probably with a belt. Charlie's eyes, however, were drawn like magnets to a burn on the left side of his chest, over his heart. There, branded on his skin, were the letters 'BP'.

Images flooded Charlie's mind, flicking through his head at a thousand miles per hour. He suddenly felt as though his own chest was burning. He could feel the red hot metal being pressed against his skin; could hear screams of agony reverberating through his head, could see the cold, lust-filled blue eyes of the man standing opposite him, smirking with perverse pleasure…

"Ok, take a seat please, Mr Parsons." Charlie was brought back to reality with a jolt when Don suddenly entered the room. He had brought his hand up to his chest while he thought, his fingers absently tracing the shapes of two letters across his skin. Clearing his throat, he lowered his hand to the table, raising his eyes to the suspect now sitting across from him. "Ok, Charlie, this is Mr Benjamin Parsons, our suspect. Mr Parsons, this is a consultant with the FBI, Dr Charles Eppes."

A looked of shocked excitement filled Parsons' face, his eyes lighting up with some twisted pleasure as he noted the opposite reaction spreading across the mathematician's face. Charlie's eyes had widened, staring with horror him. All colour had drained from his face, tears filling his eyes as he was suddenly bombarded with images, echoes of feelings and smells.

"Charlie?" Don had noticed Charlie's sudden distress, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Charlie flinched away violently though, jumping from his seat and backing away from the room's other occupants. "Charlie, are you ok? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Charlie said after a moment, shaking his head in an attempt to clear his head. "I'm fine. Just, erm, I'm sorry, Don. I forgot, I have a class to teach. I have to go. I'm fine, though. Sorry. I'm fine."

"What? Charlie what are you…" Don's words fell on deaf ears, though, as Charlie bolted from the room. Don's eyes fell briefly on Parsons, who was laughing cruelly in his seat, before falling on Megan. "What the hell was that? And what's that about teaching a class? CalSci doesn't have classes on a Saturday!"

Megan didn't respond, though. Her eyes moved the door Charlie had just run through, to the case file, which still lay open on the table. The image of the branded young boy stared up at the room, replaced after a moment in Megan's mind of the image of Charlie when she and Don had first walked in with Parsons, sitting in his chair, tracing the letters 'BP' above his heart with his fingers.


	2. Old Ways

Disclaimer – If I owned Charlie, Don and Larry, I'd have all three of them in the Paris Ritz right now (Charlie and Don cos they're yum, Larry cos he's adorable!!!)

**Chapter 1 – Old Ways**

Charlie slammed the door to his office, not even flinching as the resulting bang shook the walls, locking it behind him as a conversation between students on the grass outside his window faltered for a moment. Images and memories were firing around his mind at a thousand miles per hour, assaulting his senses with long-forgotten smells and sensations. His chest felt like it was burning all over again, and he angrily pressed the heel of his hands into his eyes as he fought the urge to scream. Tears were burning his eyes, prickling, hot and foreign behind dark, coffee coloured windows of pain, fear and confusion.

An anguished yell broke out from Charlie's throat as he ripped his long-sleeved t-shirt off, throwing it across the room at the blackboard. Conversation outside once again came to a sudden halt, but Charlie did not notice. Pulling furiously at his hair, he stormed across the room, stopping in front of the full length mirror near the door and glaring at his reflection.

Turning slowly on the spot, Charlie's eyes fell immediately on a series of scars littering his body. Dozens of small, shiny circles dotted his chest, back and shoulders – cigarette burns. Thick, straight lines stood out clearly on his back, clear and still slightly red, even now, fifteen years since the last of those wounds had been received, evidence of the lacerations inflicted by the buckle of a belt, or a grotesquely modified whip. A circle of individual puncture wounds decorated his right shoulder – a bite mark. Most horrific of all, though, was the scar on his chest, shining in the light above Charlie's heart, taunting him. The letters 'BP' were mostly white, although they were still dotted with patches of red and pink burnt skin. Of all the injuries on his body, this was the one that hurt Charlie the most; this mark of ownership branded into his flesh when he was just thirteen years old.

Waves of emotions crashed down upon Charlie, and he found himself struggling to catch his breath. He could not understand these feelings coursing through his body. All of his life, Charlie had always been able to understand and analyse everything; except this. Why would the human mind create such emotions? If events in one's past were so horrific, why would the brain continue to relive them over and over again for years, even decades, to come? It was evolutionarily illogical. For the human brain to be able to create such untraceable feelings of pain and suffering was unfathomable. There was no fresh wound on his skin; no fresh burn to his chest; no blood trickling agonisingly slowly down his back. So why did it hurt as though there was?

Charlie felt himself hyperventilating as he struggling to comprehend the most unexplainable feelings in the world. Each breath burned his lungs as he struggled to logically analyse what was happening to him. Stumbling across the room to his desk, Charlie tipped the contents of drawers onto the floor, dropping to his knees as he searched desperately through the mess in front of him, scattering objects further across the room as he did so. Finally, he found what he was looking for. The thin surgical scalpel looked delicate and graceful in his hand. Purchased originally for the dissection of organs to assist him with research into the physical characteristics of the brain for his work on cognitive emergence theory, the scalpel had, as yet, been barely used. Now, though, Charlie did not wait to think.

Flicking the protective cap across the room, Charlie grasped the scalpel in his right hand, before swiping it fluidly across his left forearm without hesitation. He repeated the action two, three, four, five more times, relief flooding through his body with each stroke. Finally, after the seventh and final cut had been inflicted, he dropped the scalpel to the floor beside him and lay back onto the cold tiles, closing his eyes as he felt the warm blood trickle from the wounds onto the floor beside him. After the rush of violent and terrifying emotions that had whirled uncontrollably through him, this calm, quiet relief came as the best release he could possibly imagine.

Charlie woke two hours later to the sound of loud banging on his office door. Clambering blearily to his feet, he stumbled to the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes and barely aware of the current state of his office, or himself. He opened the door slightly, still blinking sleepily as he peered groggily at the person in front of him as he waited to wake up enough to see who was there.

"Charles!" Larry greeted loudly and cheerfully, demonstrating much greater success at waking Charlie than Charlie himself had. "Well, I must say I'm relieved. I get multiple calls from your family, from Megan, I can't get hold of you myself, and I find – why are you shirtless?" Larry's eyes suddenly widened as he looked at the younger professor, and Charlie's eyes followed his gaze to the burn marks visible to him through the barely open door. "Are they cigarette burns?"

Charlie stared slightly dumbly at Larry as his still overly sleepy brain struggled to process the sudden changes in topic. As soon as he properly heard Larry's words, though, he came crashing back to full consciousness with a jolt. "Sorry." He stuttered quickly, looking desperately around his room for his shirt, closing the door and locking it without allowing Larry entry into the room. "I'll be with you in a second Larry. I just – er – I need to find something."

Charlie grabbed a first aid kit from his desk drawer, pulling out a packet of antiseptic wipes and hissing in pain as he hurriedly cleaned the fresh wounds on his arm. Charlie could hear another voice outside the door to his office, and, after listening carefully for a moment, he rolled his eyes at his appalling look as he recognised it as Don.

"Chuck, you in there?" Charlie hurriedly wrapped pressed a sterile dressing against his wounds and wrapped a bandage around his forearm as Don knocked gently against the door.

"Just a second!" Charlie replied, his eyes darting around the room, searching for his discarded shirt. He could hear Don trying to open the door just as he spotted the shirt on the floor. He pulled it over his head as quickly as he could while he walked towards the door, getting his head caught in the arm as he rushed. After a moment, though, he managed to successfully straighten the shirt, and he opened the door, arranging his features into a calm mask as he greeted his friend and his brother.

"Charlie, what the hell happened in that interrogation room?" Don demanded as soon as he stepped through the door. "You just completely went crazy and stormed out on a suspect."

"I'm sorry, Don." Charlie replied as calmly as possible, trying to ignore the memories of the day that flashed through his mind as Don reminded him of his own weakness. "I felt a bit ill. Had to get out before I vomited on a suspect."

"You ok now, though, Buddy?" Don enquired, looking a little less irritated with his brother. "You still don't look so – is that _blood _on your floor?"

Charlie whirled around to look at the puddle of blood Don was staring at with wide concerned eyes. "Er, yeah." He responded, thinking desperately for a believable excuse. "I had a nosebleed."

"Well, you ok, Buddy? That's an awful lot of blood for a nosebleed."

"I'm fine." The mathematician said. "It was just a pretty bad nosebleed. All stopped now though."

"Ok then." Don replied, still eying Charlie wearily. "You had any thought about this case. Maybe try and figure out how this guy chooses his victims. We need to find a way to figure out how many incidents over the last twenty-five to thirty years can be pinned on this guy."

"I'm sorry, Don." Charlie said, suddenly darting around his room again, picking up his bag and rushing to the door. "I can't help you. I have a class to teach. Very important class. Student to educate." And, with that, he was gone.

Don stared, once again, after his brother, his mouth agape as he took in his bizarre behaviour. "It's a Wednesday afternoon." He commented, still staring after Charlie. "It's sports and athletics afternoon."

"I know." Larry added, speaking for the first time since Don's arrival. "There are never any classes on a Wednesday afternoon."

Don looked at Larry, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"So what was this case about, anyway?" Larry asked, leaning casually against Charlie's desk. "What was going on when Charlie's abnormal behaviour first occurred?"

"It's a rape case." Don explained, handing the file over to the cosmologist. "A lot of young boys aged between twelve and fifteen have been tortured and raped over the last twenty-five years. It's pretty disturbing stuff."

"So I see." Larry stated as he turned the page and his eyes fell upon photographs of young boys' injuries.

"Yeah." Don sighed. "Megan and I just brought the suspect into the interview room, he was there barely a minute and Charlie just freaked out and ran away. I don't understand it."

There was silence for a moment as Larry continued to gaze sadly at the photographs in front of him. "Nor do I Donald." Larry said. "But maybe someday we will." He glanced briefly at Don, before looking back at the photographs in front of him, his brow furrowing in thought as he stared at the numerous cigarette burns littering the boys' chests.


	3. Megan

Disclaimer: Don't own them. If I did, I'd be in Disneyland right now, not sat in my house avoiding the joys that are parents

A/N: Sorry for the delay updating, guys. I've been away, so haven't had a chance to write. Anyway, here's an extra-long chapter to make up for it! Enjoy!!

Warning: This chapter contains scenes of abuse, torture and self harm

**Chapter 2 – Megan**

_Charlie was naked, lying face down on a bed, his wrists handcuffed tightly to the metal bed-frame above his head, while his feet, still not able to reach the metal frame at the foot of the bed in order to be cuffed to it, were instead secured with lengths of rope. Blood was trickling down his back, and Charlie whimpered as he felt his captor once again drag a razor blade casually across the skin over his shoulder blades. Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie saw him reach for a cigarette and light it, before sitting down on top of Charlie, straddling his young, eleven year old frame._

"_Please…" Charlie whimpered, his fear of what was to come defeating his determination not to beg. "Ben, please don't!"_

_There was silence for a moment as Benjamin Parsons took a long, deep drag of his cigarette, steadily blowing out the smoke as he considered the child lying underneath him. He watched the blood trickle down the skin of his back, and knew that the Eppes boy would be able to feel his body's reaction against the backs of his thighs. Charlie whimpered once again, and Benjamin's eyes darkened with lust as the power coursed through his veins like an aphrodisiac, and, suddenly, he brought the burning tip of the cigarette down against Charlie's right arm, pushing it hard against his skin._

_Charlie bit down hard on the pillow underneath him, squeezing his eyes shut as he fought the urge to scream. He felt Benjamin climb off him, and heard the sound of his jeans being unzipped. Bile rose in his throat as he realised what was to come, and he started muttering numbers under his breath, focusing on the geometric patterns in the metal headboard as he was once again crushed under Benjamin's weight, and he felt the searing pain of his body being breached._

"Charlie!"

Charlie woke with a start, looking up to see his brother standing over him, his forehead creased as he peered at the mathematician.

"You ok, buddy?" Don asked, placing his hand on Charlie's shoulder and pulling it back quickly when his little brother flinched violently away from him. "What's going on? You were yelling in your sleep – kept crying 'Please don't'. You having nightmares?"

"It's nothing." Charlie lied, climbing out of bed and walking over to look through his wardrobe, deliberately avoiding eye contact with Don. "Just fell asleep thinking about the case."

"Ok." Don said, still looking slightly concerned. "Try not to let the cases get to you so much. And you know there are people you can speak to at the FBI if they do get under your skin." Charlie nodded, still not looking at his brother, so Don changed the subject. "Anyway, bro. Get yourself dressed. The Director wants you in that interview today."

"What?" Charlie exclaimed, looking up, alarmed.

"I know, the guy can be a prick sometimes. He wants to throw you in at the deep end. No way out I'm afraid." Charlie nodded reluctantly at Don's words, trying to ignore his heart pounding almost painfully against his ribcage. "Anyway," Don continued, "I'll leave you to get dressed. See you downstairs in ten?" Charlie nodded again, and Don left the room without another word, leaving his brother alone to find some way to calm himself before meeting Ben Parsons again.

Charlie sat down at the table in the interrogation room, as Benjamin Parsons once again sat down opposite him. Chewing his lip nervously, he rubbed his hand up and down his right forearm, the pressure of his palm against hour-old wounds causing pain to keep him focussed on the task in hand, stop his mind disappearing into memories he wished he could burn from his brain forever.

Megan was sitting in the corner of the room, watching closely as Charlie avoided eye contact with Parsons, who smiled widely at the sight of the young mathematician.

"Ok." Don said, dropping the file onto the table and sitting down next to Charlie. "Let's get started, shall we."

Charlie stormed angrily into the house, slamming the door behind him. Don had stayed at the FBI to continue working on the case, and Alan was visiting a cousin in Oakland for a few days, so Charlie had the Craftsman to himself for a while.

Walking into the kitchen, he could not help replaying the morning's events over in his head, trying to ignore the pangs of fear, disgust and self-loathing that the memory triggered. All through the interview, Megan had been watching him closely, seeming to evaluate his expressions and behaviour, almost as though she knew what was going through his mind, and Parsons had stared at him as though he was a rare piece of artwork that had been stolen years earlier and which he had never expected to see again.

Not even thinking about what he was doing, Charlie grabbed a large, sharp knife from the block, rolled up his left sleeve, and dragged the blade rapidly across the inside of his wrist. Relief flooded through him immediately, the pain and feeling of blood seeping down his arm instantly replacing his overwhelming feelings of rage, disgust and emotional agony. Once again, he swept the blade across his wrist, once again feeling the rush of feeling. He did it again, but this time, it was not relief that filled him. It was panic.

As soon as the cut was made, blood spurted from his wrist, pouring onto the ground in front of him. Charlie grabbed a towel from the counter immediately, wrapping it around his wrist as tightly as he could, using his right elbow and ribs to press it there while he fumbled for his mobile phone. He knew he had to call somebody, but names were whizzing through his head almost too fast for him to reject them. After what seemed like hours, though, he reached a decision.

"Megan!" Charlie spoke quickly into the phone, not giving the psychologist a chance to respond. "Megan, don't tell Don or anyone else, but I need you to come to the house."

"What?" Megan's voice responded, becoming a whisper, and Charlie could almost see her, crouching in her chair to avoid unwanted attention. "Charlie, are you ok?"

"No." Charlie said honestly. "I did something stupid, and I dunno… I think I caught a vein… it won't stop… there's so much blood."

Megan was on her feet, keys in hand as soon as Charlie said the word 'vein', waving her hand and giving Don what she hoped was a reassuring look as he looked at her with concern.

"Ok, Charlie." Megan said once she reached the elevators. "Is it your wrist?"

"Yeah." Came the slightly weak reply from the other end of the line.

"Ok, Charlie." Megan said as she reached her car and turned on a portable blue flashing light. "Sit on the floor and raise your wrist as high as you can. Keep as much pressure on it as you can."

"Ok." Charlie said quietly, sliding to the ground as he started to feel faint. "I wasn't trying to…" Charlie hesitated for a split second. "I ran out of space, so I used the inside of my arm… just went deeper than normal."

Megan sped up as she heard Charlie's words begin to slur. She kept him talking until she heard pulled into the Eppes' street, when she heard Charlie's phone hit the floor with a thud. Cutting off the call as she stopped outside the house, she dialled 911 as she ran to the door, using her spare key to get in.

Megan stood as the doctor slowly approached her, his brow furrowed in a frown as he tried to think of what he would say to her.

"Miss Reeves, would you mind following me?" Megan nodded, licking her lips nervously as she followed the doctor into the relatives' room.

"Miss Reeves, my name is Doctor Jason Cartwright. Doctor Eppes has given his permission for me to speak freely with you, and I have several concerns I wish to raise."

"Is Charlie ok?" Megan asked, relieved that Charlie was well enough to give his consent.

"It was close, but we managed to stop the bleeding just in time." Dr Cartwright explained. "Now, you are a forensic psychologist, yes?"

"That's right." Megan confirmed with a nod. "I work on violent crimes with the FBI."

"Now, in your professional opinion, are you of the belief that this incident was not an attempt by Charles to take his own life?"

"I'm positive." Megan responded firmly. "I don't know what's led to this, but I kept Charlie talking on the phone when he called for help. He said he cut too deep." Megan hesitated, briefly considering Charlie's mentality. "Charlie sees things through a curtain of logic and numbers. I think he sees this a little bit like an equation. In the past, cutting himself made him feel better. Therefore, it logically follows that it would make him feel better again. It seems strange but, to him, it's like an empirically proven formula. And, like I said, he thinks in terms of logic. He would never do something as _illogical _as committing suicide. He would see it as counter-evolutionary or something."

Dr Cartwright studied her for a moment, considering her words. "Well then," he said, making a note on a clipboard. "I'm not going to recommend that he be institutionalised then. There is something else I would like to mention though. I may have to show you as well."

"What is it?" Megan asked.

"Charles has a number of scars on his body." Megan raised her eyebrows, as if to say that this was to be expected considering he was in the hospital for self-inflicted cuts, but Dr Cartwright went on. "They are not consistent with previous incidents of self-injury, though."

"Well what are they, then?" Megan demanded, her brow creased in confusion.

Dr Cartwright hesitated, choosing his words very carefully before continuing. "They appear to have been inflicted during multiple incidents of torture."

Megan could only stare, horrified, as Dr Cartwright opened the door and beckoned for her to follow. "What do you mean by 'multiple incidents'?" Megan asked as she walked alongside the doctor.

"Judging by the condition of the scars, I would say they were inflicted over several years. It's hard to say for certain, but considering how the scars overlap and seem to have stretched as he aged, I'd say there are too many incidents to count, probably suffered anytime from before puberty until his late teens." Dr Cartwright stopped as he reached the door to Charlie's room. "He's sleeping now, so you will be able to see the injuries for yourself. Considering your work with the FBI, you may be able to offer your own professional opinion. Then, I would like a brief moment with you, and you will be free to take Charles home."

Megan stepped nervously into the room, her eyes falling on Charlie's silently sleeping form. Stepping closer, she could not stop the gasp that fell from her lips as her eyes travelled over his scarred torso. Her eyes widened with horror as she took in the hundreds of cigarette burns, the whip-inflicted lacerations on his chest and stomach, and the many, many self inflicted cuts to his forearms. A tear trickled down her cheek and a pained sob escaped her lip as Megan's eyes fell upon the initials branded above Charlie's heart, and the pieces began to fall into place.

"Megan?" Charlie sat up slowly, raising his hands as if trying self-consciously to cover his scars.

"Can you turn around, please, Charlie?" Megan asked, laying a hand gently on Charlie's shoulder. "I just need to see…"

Charlie nodded and turned, showing his back to Megan. Laceration after laceration marred the tanned skin of Charlie's back, showing clearly where he had been whipped more times than Megan cared to imagine. There were yet more cigarette burns. Not as many as there were on the mathematician's stomach and chest, but still probably almost a hundred, and there were long cuts running all the way down Charlie's spine, reminding Megan oddly of a highway, running up her friend's back.

Megan sat down at the foot of the bed, looking sadly at Charlie. To her horror, she saw him looking at her with frightened, apologetic eyes.

"I'm sorry." Charlie said, crossing his arms protectively around himself.

"Hey." Megan said, sounding far calmer than she felt, and placing a hand on his comfortingly. "Charlie, you have nothing to be sorry about, ok? _Nothing_." Charlie nodded his head quietly, still looking terrified, as Megan placed a plastic bag on the chair next to his bed. "Now, there are some clean clothes in there. I'm going to speak to Dr Cartwright for a second, so you put them on, and put your bloody clothes in the bag. I'll be back in a second, and I can take you back home, ok?"

Charlie nodded, and Megan got to her feet, stepping out into the corridor and closing the door behind her. Once out of the room, she slid slowly down the wall and buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she shed some rare tears.

"Miss Reeves?"

Megan looked up and saw Dr Cartwright crouched down next to her. "Sorry." She said, wiping her eyes. "It's just… he was _tortured_. For _years_. How could none of us have noticed this?"

"Hey." Dr Cartwright assured her. "Victims of this kind of abuse are often painfully careful to hide what they've been through. Sometimes, friends and family can never find out."

"We showed him photos."

"What photos?" Dr Cartwright enquired, looking confused.

"We called Charlie in to consult on a case. We showed him photos of kids who've been tortured and raped. They had the letters 'BP' branded onto their chests. Just like Charlie." Megan hesitated, looking through her fingers at Dr Cartwright. "Oh, god. Was he raped?"

"It's too long after the event to know for sure, but we think so." The doctor explained. "We found scars from cuts and burns around the inner thighs, buttocks and genitals. It looks like he was the victim of some serious sadist abuse. It looks like they poured boiling water on him, burnt him with matches and cigarettes, as well as other objects, and cut him. It's the worst case I've ever come across."

Megan swallowed down her nausea, nodding numbly. "We sat him down in an interview with the bastard."

"You want my advice?" Dr Cartwright asked, standing up and holding out a hand to help Megan up. Megan nodded, taking the offered hand and standing. "He needs a friend right now, more than anything. Just listen to him, support him. He sat opposite the man who abused him. That will have brought up some terrible memories. Don't try to pressure him into anything. If he decides to help with your investigation, then, if you think it will be ok, let him. If he decides he wants to provide evidence himself, definitely let him. I'm no psychologist, but if the guy decides he wants justice and closure, then for god's sake, help him _get_ justice and closure."

Megan nodded again, wiping away the evidence of her tears, before following Dr Cartwright to the nurses' station to sign Charlie's discharge papers.


	4. Storytelling

Disclaimer: If I owned Numb3rs, this'd be a feature length episode, not a fanfic written while I avoid both essays and family.

**Chapter 3 – Storytelling**

Charlie dropped down onto the sofa, flicking the television on as he heard Megan walk into the kitchen, filling the kettle to make a cup of tea. He saw the beginning of an episode of Doctor Who, but he didn't take in what was happening on the screen. Something about Agatha Christie and a wasp.

"You ok?" Megan asked, placing a steaming cup of black earl grey on the coffee table in front of the professor.

"Yeah." Charlie lied, rubbing his eyes wearily. "I'm fine."

"Liar." Megan replied with a reassuring smile. "You gonna tell me about it, or do I have to ask a load of questions?"

"I don't know where to start." Charlie told her. "I mean, where's the beginning with something like this?"

"How old were you?" Megan asked. "When it first happened."

Charlie hesitated, biting his lip nervously, before responding. "Ten. I was ten the first time anything happened. Eleven when he first… well… the first time he burnt me and… erm… raped me."

"How long did it go on for?" Megan enquired, pressing her lips together as she felt yet another wave of nausea wash over her.

"Until I was seventeen." Charlie replied. "I thought I'd escaped when I was thirteen and I went off to college, but then he turned up in Princeton. I think he followed me there." Tears spilled down Charlie's face, and Megan pulled him gently into her arms, kissing his head comfortingly when he wrapped his arms around her waist and his sobs intensified. "I didn't know what to do." Charlie confessed. "I just buried it away, and let it bottle up until it spilled over, and then when it did spill over I'd hurt myself to make it go away. You must think I'm crazy."

"No, Charlie." Megan reassured him. "I know you, and I know that you don't really know how to handle your emotions. Something that huge would completely overwhelm somebody who _did _know how to handle it. And you were just a kid trying to cope with what was being done to you."

"I'm sorry I never told you, especially when this case started." Charlie said. "It just brought so much back, and the way he looked at me… he recognised me, and it was like he had his favourite old toy back."

"It's ok, Charlie." Megan told him. "Why did you never tell Alan or Don?"

"Because I should have been able to stop him." Charlie explained, his shoulders once again shaking with irrepressible sobs. "I was the genius. I should have been able to do anything. And Don was so strong. He was my tough, brave big brother. How could I tell him I'd let someone tie me up and…" Charlie trailed off, overwhelmed by sobs as Megan rocked him backwards and forwards in her arms, stroking his thick, curly hair in what she hoped was a comforting manner.

Suddenly, the door opened, and Don stormed into the room, a case file clutched in his hand, freezing as he spotted Charlie sobbing in Megan's arms.

"Hey guys." Don said, looking confused and slightly terrified. "What's going on?"

Charlie stood up quickly, clearing his throat loudly and rubbing his face as hard as he could, trying unsuccessfully to wipe away the evidence of his tears. "Nothing, Don." He said, trying to sound nonchalant. "What's up?"

"No, Buddy, you've been crying." Don insisted, looking at his brother with undisguised concern. "What's the matter? Has something happened?"

"Don, it's nothing." Megan said, stepping in when she saw Charlie's eyes start to widen in panic. "What's wrong? You look like you've brought work with you."

"Oh, yeah." Don said, handing the file to Megan with a worried glance at his little brother. "We had to release Parsons. All we have so far is circumstantial evidence. He happened to rent a flat on the same street as one of the victims, and he happens to have the initials 'BP'. It's not enough to go on."

"And none of the parents are willing to let the kids ID him?" Megan asked, flicking through the file. Her eyes fell on the photographs of the victims' injuries, and she slammed the file shut, thrusting it back at Don as her eyes filled with tears again.

"No." Don replied, looking at Megan with confusion. It was very unlike the profiler to get so emotional over a case. "Hey, Chuck, you got any magic math ideas we could use?"

"Erm… are none of the older victims willing to come forward?" Charlie asked, ignoring the file Don was now holding out to him. "You said this had started twenty-five years ago. Are none of those victims willing to ID him?"

"They can't." Don said. "Most don't want anything to do with the case, they just want to put the whole thing behind them, and the ones who were willing to cooperate could identify him. None of them were groomed or abused over a long period of time, and they all say it all happened too fast, and they didn't really get a good look at his face."

"I may be able to come up with something using any links I can between the victims and… erm… the… well… the suspect." Charlie said reluctantly, noticing the concerned look on Megan's face. "But –"

"Ok, then." Don said, turning back towards the door. "Well I'm gonna head back to the office to grab the details on Parsons and the victims, and I'll see you later."

Charlie could only watch, momentarily stunned, as his brother was suddenly out of the door and in the car before the mathematician had a chance to register that he had even moved. Megan came to stand next to Charlie, peering worriedly at him out of the corner of her eye.

"This is really messed up, isn't it?" Charlie said, not taking his eyes off Don, who was doing up his seatbelt in the SUV.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to." Megan replied, leaning against the doorframe and studying Charlie's face.

"I know." Charlie sighed. "But I need to try and get something before I…"

"Before you what?" Megan asked.

"Well, at the moment the case is going to fall through." Charlie told her. "Like Don said, you need someone who was groomed and abused over a long period of time, and who got a good look at his face."

Megan gaped, overwhelmed by the look on Charlie's face as he closed the front door. Studying the sad look in his eyes, Megan suddenly recognised the expression. He looked like a man who was resigned to his fate, and felt he had little choice but to do it.


	5. Hints

**Chapter 4 – Hints**

_Hey guys. Sorry for the REALLY long delay getting this too you. I had my dissertation due in a couple of weeks ago, so I've been working my little socks off over the last couple of months writing that. Anyway… enjoy!!_

Charlie sighed as he dropped down into the chair behind his desk in the FBI offices. After more than two years working with the FBI, Don had finally given his brother his own desk space in the bullpen; a space which Charlie had immediately filled enthusiastically with mathematics books and journals, boards covered with equations, and papers filled with Charlie's own scribbled notes. He twirled a pen absentmindedly between his fingers, staring into space, watching, but not really seeing, as Larry chatted animatedly with Megan. Suddenly, though, his attention was grabbed by Don rushing into the room, a small tape held in his hand.

"The bastard called us!" Don announced, beckoning for his team to join him. "Listen to this! We may have some major clues in here!"

Charlie swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat, leaning against Don's desk in what he hoped was a calm, casual manner. His shoulders stiffened, however, when Don pressed play, and a familiar voice filled the area.

"You all think you have a chance of finding me, but I know you're wrong." The voice said, his smirk audible through his voice. "You're closer than you could possibly imagine to my favourite piece, but I know he hasn't got the balls to tell you." Charlie took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay still, praying his feet would follow his command and not run from the room as fast as they could. "He was such a beautiful boy. So determined to be brave; so desperate not to scream or beg, in case he let his precious family down. I was obsessed with him, so much that I kept him for seven wonderful years. He used to recite his homework through his teeth while we had sex, a constant stream of numbers and formulas, even as I burned and cut him. He was exquisite. I used to make him suck me, and even then I could see him writing the formulas with his fingers against his thigh. It was such a thrill, to know that I owned such genius. I remember once, he recited the first seven prime numbers the first time I fucked him. As a gift for him – a token of the beautiful event – I burned those numbers into his skin. Small groups of cigarette burns. Little clusters of two, three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen, seventeen. It feels good to know he still carries these memories of me. And he was so willing. All I had to do was ask him just what would his precious, brave big brother think of him if he knew what we had done. That was enough. He would do whatever I asked, for fear that he would find out.

"Anyway, I digress. As I said, you can keep trying, but you will never be able to bring me to your so-called justice. You have no witnesses willing or able to testify, and the boy who I loved the most is too much of a coward to act. And what can your precious mathematician so with not data?"

The line suddenly went dead, and silence filled the room. Each member of the group was stunned, their faces pale, teeth gritted in horror and disgust. Charlie raised his tear-filled, terrified eyes to the group, taking in their looks of revulsion and, in some faces, anger. A wave of nausea crashed down upon him like a great tsunami, and he pushed desperately away from the desk, hurrying from the room as fast as he could without actually running.

Charlie wiped his mouth with a tissue, swallowing around the acrid taste of bile that filled his mouth, scratching desperately at the cuts on his forearm before closing his eyes in irritation as he heard the bathroom door open and footsteps walk slowly into the room.

"Chuck?" Don's voice echoed loudly in the empty bathroom. "You ok, Buddy?"

Charlie took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose before responding in a croaky voice. "I'm fine, Don."

"Look, Charlie, try not to empathise too much with this kid, ok?" Don said quietly, trying to comfort his brother. "I know he seems to have a lot in common with you, but you need to keep a clear head and not let it bother you."

"I said I'm fine, Don." Charlie said slowly through gritted teeth, sighing loudly as he heard the sound of the door opening once again and a woman's heels echoing on the tiled floor. There was silence for a moment, and then Don's footsteps could be heard as he left the room, hesitating for a moment before closing the door behind him. There was a loud click as Megan locked the door behind him.

"Charlie?" Megan called out, stopping just outside the stall Charlie was hiding in. "Can you come out here please? I just want to check you're ok. We're alone, I promise."

Charlie sighed once again, before rising slowly to his feet. "I'm fine, Megan, see?" He said irritably, spreading his arms wide, displaying himself, alive and well, to her.

"No you're not." Megan replied. "You just heard your abuser announcing to your brother, friends and colleagues exactly what he did to you in very graphic detail. You can't be ok after that."

Charlie shrugged, unable to look Megan in the eyes as he sat down on the floor opposite the stalls, leaning back against the sink units. "No, I guess I'm not really ok," he conceded, "but I'll live."

"Of course you will." Megan told him as she sat down next to him. "Because you really are incredibly brave and strong, and you're too good to let him beat you. I always knew you were amazing, but now I know you're also the strongest, bravest man I ever met."

"No I'm not." Charlie replied with a sneer, hugging his knees to his chest in a stance that reminded Megan suddenly of a small, frightened child. "I'm hiding in here crying when everyone else is out there trying to find this guy. I'm a coward."

"You are _not _a coward." Megan said firmly. "Everyone else is better able to work on this guy because they were never tortured, raped or abused by him. Believe me, if any one of them had gone through half what you went through, they wouldn't even be anywhere near this case. If it had been me, I don't think I would have been able to survive it. But you _did_. You're amazing, just being able to go through each day and be the amazing person you are. I really do admire the courage and dignity you're showing."

Charlie looked at her, chewing his lip nervously, blushing at her praise and clearly thinking about what she had said.

"Now," Megan continued, nodding at his left wrist, "you're bleeding. Let's get that cleaned up and I'll see if we can get you home without anyone noticing."


	6. Missing

**Chapter 5 – Missing**

_A/N: __**Warning**__: This chapter contains rape and abuse._

A week later found Charlie standing at his CalSci desk at around seven in the evening, packing essays and journal articles into his bag, eager to get home after a long afternoon of office hours, in which he had given numerous average undergraduate students advice regarding their notably average dissertation topics. Quite simply, he was tired, frustrated, and eager to go home to sleep, preferably for around a century.

Locking the door to his office, Charlie barely had time to gasp before a hand clamped firmly over his mouth, and his cell phone fell with a clatter to the floor as he was dragged, struggling, away.

"Hey, Dad." Don said, letting himself into the Craftsman that evening and taking off his jacket, glancing briefly at his father, who was peering with determination at a jigsaw spread over the dining table. "Charlie home?"

"No." Alan replied, looking up with a momentary flash of concern. "I figured he was probably with you?"

"No." Don said, looking at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Where the hell is he? It's nearly midnight."

Alan pushed a handful of jigsaw pieces away from him, standing up and grabbing the phone from beside the door. "I'll try calling him; see where he is."

Don stood silently for a moment, chewing his thumbnail anxiously as his father's expression grew more and more concerned with each passing moment.

"No answer." Alan told him, putting down the phone. "His cell is switched on, he's just not picking up."

"I'm gonna call round the guys." Don said, pulling his own cell phone from his pocket. "This isn't like him."

Ten minutes later, Don still hadn't had any luck. He had spoken to Larry, Amita, Colby, David and Megan, and none of them had heard from Charlie. "Nothing." He told Alan, picking his keys up from the side table and throwing his jacket back on. "Dad, you stay here in case he comes home, I'm gonna go pick up Megan and we'll see if we can track him down." Alan nodded quietly, sitting down on the sofa as his eldest son left again, hesitating for a moment at the door to say "Try not to worry, Dad. It's probably nothing."

Thick ropes cut harshly into Charlie's wrists, the first drops of blood breaking through the surface of his skin. His eyes stung with unshed tears as he felt the weight of a man settle languidly on the backs of his thighs, the sharp odour of cigarettes burning the back of his through, before he bit his lip sharply, drawing blood as he felt the tip of the cigarette press suddenly against he skin of his back.

After fifteen more minutes, Charlie's mouth was filled with the taste of his own blood as he clamped his teeth down on his lip again and again, forcing himself to contain the screams desperate to surge from his lungs. Suddenly, Charlie felt the weight leave him as his captor climbed down from on top of him. This did nothing to ease the dread filling him, though, as the sound of jeans being unzipped echoed through the room, and Charlie was unable to stop the pleading "Ben, no, please…" that escaped his lips, to be answered with nothing but a chuckle.

As Charlie felt the familiar sensation of his body being invaded, he mumbled the first thing that came into his mind: "0, 1, 1, 2, 3… Ben, please stop it… 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233, 377, 610, 987, 1597…"

Two hours later, Charlie walked slowly up the stairs in a new apartment building around a mile from his Craftsman home. Taking keys from his bag, he gingerly inserted them into the keyhole of apartment 8, wincing as the new cuts running down his spine stretched with the movement. Charlie had purchased this small apartment nearly three years earlier, when he realised that living exclusively with his father left him with little time or space for uninterrupted thought. In the last couple of weeks, though, since he was introduced to the Parsons case, it had become his hideaway; a safe haven only he knew about, where he could come to escape, to think about his situation.

It was also a place where, if everything became too difficult, he could grab a razor blade from the bathroom and find his sanctuary there. This was the decision he had opted for before the front door had even closed behind him, and, so, walking determinedly towards the bathroom, he dropped his bloodstained shirt onto the floor behind him, not even cringing as newly formed scabs were torn from his skin with the fabric, cuts opening and bleeding once again within seconds.

_A/N: Special brownie points to anyone who can tell me what sequence Charlie was reciting during his ordeal, as well as the connected mathematical significance of his apartment number_


End file.
